Welcome to the Vix, Knife-Ears.
Ithuriel winced as he shifted his canvas bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. The strap had been cutting into his flesh for innumerable hours of agony until at last near midday it relented to numbness, and with the disappearance of that pressure, so went the numbness. He rubbed the tight, aching cords of muscle at the base of his neck and cleared his throat to get the attention of the man at the desk in front of him. He didn’t look up. Ithuriel stood arborescent, patient, steadfast. No need to be impolite. The man, whose boyish face rested in the palm of one hand while he slumped over his desk with a quill in hand, intently studying the parchment he’d been writing on, gave no indication that he acknowledged Ithuriel’s entrance. Ithuriel coughed again, deliberately, a little louder. He glanced around the office, which smelled like the basement of a musty old church because, well, it was. Nothing. Ithuriel gave it thirty more seconds. “Excuse me,” he finally said. Absolutely nothing. Deaf, maybe? A drip of liquid on parchment; Ithuriel put it down to leaky stonework at first, until he realized that the ceiling was bone dry and the priest was, in fact, drooling. Is he asleep? Ithuriel raised his walking stick. He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody else was watching, and slowly, gently, booped the priest on the brow. “Hffffwhat, mmmh, heh? Whozer? Whadayawan,” he mumbled as he jolted awake, scrubbing away the drool with his sleeve, finding Ithuriel’s face with bleary, sticky eyes. “Well met. My name is Ithuriel Kuro’hane,” Ithuriel said, a polite but aloof lilt to his voice. “So?” the priest grumbled. Ithuriel blinked. Surely this man couldn’t be the organizer of a powerful cult of assassins; he must be the apprentice or secretary of that individual. “I’m looking for a man named Botard,” he announced. “You found him,” said apparently-Botard. “Is that all you want? An autograph or something? Why am I looking at you and your stupid pointy ears instead of the insides of my eyelids?” Oh dear. For the first time since hearing of the Vix Agarra, Ithuriel began to have doubts about his decision to come here. “No,” he said, and drew himself up to his full height. “I wish to join your organization, and learn the art of killing.” “Ah. Gotcha. And uh...what is it you have to offer the Vix Agarra in exchange for your training, exactly?” Botard said, sizing up the elf. “My vast knowledge as a High Elf of Lindala, the honor of claiming an ancient child of the Vanessi among your ranks, and my prowess in battle,” Ithuriel proclaimed. Botard blinked lazily and said nothing. For some reason he seemed unimpressed, unsold. They stared at one another for a full minute in silence, a minute that was far more uncomfortable for the elf than the human. Botard yawned. Ithuriel began to sweat. “..I’m also a pretty decent cook,” Ithuriel added at last, in desperation. “Sold!” Botard cried. “You’ll apprentice under Engrad. When can you start? Do you bake cookies in a tree?” Ithuriel felt a small part of himself die. What have I done? Category:Character lore